


i can see the end (but it hasn't happened yet)

by ought_to_be



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Retail, Author apologizes for any fundamental misunderstanding of business practices, Gabriel is the worst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), retail hell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26206837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ought_to_be/pseuds/ought_to_be
Summary: Crowley has been head over heels in love with Aziraphale ever since his first day working at Infernal Frames, the sunglasses kiosk at the Tadfield Mall. So when Aziraphale finds out his neighboring bookshop is suddenly at risk of being put out of business, Crowley knows they can’t let it go without a fight (mostly because he doesn’t know what he’d do without his daily fix of Angel). Can they stop the impending Doomsday before it’s too late?~~~AKA a silly little AU completely inspired by this incredible Gina quote from Brooklyn Nine-Nine:“Big deal. I worked at a sunglass kiosk at the mall for four years. So not only have I been through hell, I was assistant manager there.”It’s a little mind-boggling how much this quote just Is Crowley, and so obviously something had to be done about it. It spiraled, here’s this.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 34





	1. out of place all the time

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first Good Omens fic, the first fic I'm posting on here, kinda my first fic ever. I've been lurking in this fandom for a long time, but was really shy about actually interacting. After months of dying for creativity and inspiration I've finally written something and I've finally worked up the nerve to post it. This idea came to me while watching B99 and I just had to write it. I figured a silly fun thing like this would be a great starting point for me! Please be kind!  
> I'm still getting into the groove of writing, and honestly don't feel "ready" to post, but I knew I'll never feel ready so here I am posting this and forcing myself to stay accountable.  
> Unbeta'd so forgive any mistakes. Especially any tense-switching, I did my best but there may be some mistakes I missed.  
> Title and chapter titles from Breathing Underwater by Metric.  
> Enjoy!

“Really, my dear.”

“What?” Crowley doesn’t look away from the rubbish bin he’s focused on, attempting to toss the remnants of his and Aziraphale’s lunch into the bin from their bench across the way. “‘M not littering or anything.”

“Crowley, there are napkins all over the ground, you’re absolutely littering,” Aziraphale says, in that stern way of his that indicates he’s trying very hard to not show how amused he actually is. He’s become an expert at brushing off Crowley’s antics, which of course means Crowley is forced to amp things up in retaliation.

“Ehh, yeah, that’s a technicality, angel,” he dismisses, draining the last of his subpar (and now lukewarm) coffee with a shudder before leaning forward on the bench and lining up his next shot. “Thought that counts, innit? Least I’m trying to make it in. Besides, seeing all that sad litter on the ground’ll motivate others to be better. Or not. Choice is theirs, that’s on them.” He lobs the paper coffee cup through the air, leaning back with a dissatisfied huff as it bounces resoundingly off the rim of the bin and lands on the floor.

“For heaven’s sake, Crowley, you’re making a mess,” Aziraphale chides, no real bite to it as he dabs the corner of his mouth delicately with his (neatly folded, not crumpled into a ball like Crowley’s) napkin. The corners of Crowley’s own lips quirk up almost imperceptibly as he settles back against the bench, reassuming the carefully crafted position of complete casualness.

“Anyway, you were saying? Tracy-”

“Ah, yes, _Tracy_ , she was already cross with this customer because they were really very aloof and dismissive when she offered assistance,” _aloof_ , of course Aziraphale would use the word _aloof_ in the midst of a rant, “but that’s not unusual. So then they’re making their way around the shop, picking up books and then putting them down again _in the wrong place_ ,” and here Crowley can’t help but snort out a laugh at how affronted Aziraphale is at this egregious offense, “but then they have the _nerve_ to set down their drink, their iced coffee, _on top of a book_!” And here he looks over at Crowley, and who is he to not meet that horrified look with a properly scandalized reaction of his own? 

(Of course, to anyone looking, it was simply a raised eyebrow, a click of the tongue, a low hum that lilted slightly in the direction of disapproval. But Crowley knows ( _hopes, figures, desperately clings to the possibility_ ) that he’s spent long enough around Aziraphale that the other knows how to read his expressions like a book. He certainly spends enough time reading _actual_ books, Crowley figures the assumption can’t be too far off.)

“Not just on a shelf, on a-”

“On a _book_ , yes! And it was _dripping_ with condensation so a perfectly good paperback was ruined before Tracy or myself could swoop in to save it.” Aziraphale isn’t looking over at Crowley anymore, but he still radiates disapproval like a… something that radiates stuff, metaphors aren’t at the forefront of Crowley’s mind at the moment.

“The nerve of some people,” Crowley says with a shake of his head. “I suppose that’s another for your collection then?” Out of paper waste to throw, he’s resorted to fiddling with the buttons on his jacket to quell the itching in his hands, the need to express, connect.

“Oh, no, I’m afraid it was a Wilde that I already have, but Tracy will take it.” Aziraphale nods and reaches into his pocket to glance at his watch. (Crowley adores that pocket watch1 and he always feels a little surge of warmth when Aziraphale takes it out, because of _course_ he uses one of those.) “Oh dear, speaking of Tracy, I suppose it’s about time I go back and relieve her for her own lunch. But this was a lovely break.”

Crowley responds with some consonants he hopes sound like a complaint and slides down the bench until his options amount to standing up or falling to the floor, and there is no way in Heaven, Hell, or anywhere in between that he would voluntarily touch that cesspool. “Guess I should check in on the intern, make sure he hasn’t burned the damn place to the ground.”

Aziraphale turns from where he is now standing up, smoothing down his waistcoat as his head tilts adorably in confusion. “Do shopping mall kiosks have interns?”

“Enngh, he’s young, he’s underpaid, he’s annoying, he’s an intern. That’s all interns are, right?” The new kid (Ethan, Alec, Eric something, Crowley truly cannot be bothered2), had been hired a few weeks ago, and still manages to bumble around the place with enough nervous and eager energy to power a small village. It makes Crowley itch.

“Sure, my dear.” Aziraphale makes his way over to the sad pile of Crowley’s boredom and picks up the remains, dropping them into the bin along with the waste from his own lunch (he’s taken a shine to the new stir fry place in the food court, Crowley notes) before falling into step with Crowley in the direction of their shops. Well, his shop, Crowley’s own personal island of Hell which floated in a sea of sulfur and despair.

Crowley is nearer to forty than he cares to admit, and he’s a damn good salesman. He could have a job, a real job in the corporate world (even though the thought of being a corporate drone makes him want to go superglue some coins to the ground in an act of direct rebellion against the expectations of maturity surrounding him), he could be successful. But here he is, the not-at-all proud Assistant Manager of Hell.

Infernal Frames.

Mall kiosks are absolutely demonic in nature3, in Crowley’s opinion. The emotional and ideological opposite to an oasis in the middle of a desert, a beacon of life and safety; kiosks jut out of the landscape of a bustling mall and automatically repel any possible desire to approach them. Any shopper with a shred of self-preservation knows to avoid these at all costs, because if you veer too close to them, they suck you in like a whirlpool, and try as you may you are fully unable to escape the clutches of whatever underpaid sales representative is trying to harass you into a free sample of lotion. 

Infernal Frames is no exception to these guerilla-style sales tactics. Crowley despises it, the way that his coworkers ooze skeeviness as they wander the walkway surrounding them. They artlessly and tactlessly assault innocent passersby with sunglasses outstretched, really just leaving a bad taste in everybody’s mouth.

It’s bullshit, all of it, and Crowley hates it. Really goes against the whole _vibe_ of sunglasses, doesn’t it? The idea is a casual coolness. You wear sunglasses to look like you’re not trying hard, a shield between you and the rest of the world so you can go about your day without care (and so any longing looks you let slip in the direction of certain booksellers are safely hidden away). 

Or so you can keep the sun out of your eyes. That’s really just an added feature, in Crowley’s opinion.

Crowley is proud of the sales tactics he’s developed. He’s sick of the usual way of doing things. Watching Hastur and Ligur attempt to work always makes him feel like he needs a shower. It’s offensive, invasive, and aggressively approaching a shopper telling them to “ _try these on, losers, you’ll be cool_ ” is guaranteed to make them not want to buy your product. It’s too much effort for a failed result.

He’s not one to brag, but Crowley worked his way up from part time employee (which is Eric’s actual position, not that Crowley will admit that4) to assistant manager by making improvements to the place that no one had cared to think of before him. No one wants to try on sunglasses and look at themselves in a mirror covered with cracks and grime. Suggesting to his manager that maybe they invest in some new mirrors, something sleek, and get some of those spinning racks to hold the sunglasses instead of broken shelves, and people will see the products as more reputable, that’s the kind of thing that made him look invaluable in his supervisors’ eyes.

That and his sales numbers. An observer passing by (hopefully wisely giving the kiosk a wide berth) would see drones like Hastur and Ligur seemingly working hard to earn their keep, as they corner customers and drag them to the mirrors until they cry uncle and buy something to escape, and think that they are good workers. They’d see Crowley lounging in his chair (a chair that really shouldn’t be able to support the way he’s lounging, what with his blatant disregard for physics) and see a slacker. But Crowley’s perfected the art of minimal effort yielding maximum gain.

It’s all about suggestion. If you corner the customer like a scared animal they won’t even consider buying from you. You have to make them _want_ your product.

He started with the mall security guards.

Mall security guards have two jobs, according to Crowley: stand motionless, and walk in circles. They are either stationed at high-traffic areas of the mall, generally looking intimidating and making an imposing presence of themselves, or they walk laps around the entire place, sure to encounter lots of shoppers as they do their rounds.

They’re living, breathing, muscley billboards.

Sell a pair of sunglasses to one guard (and this profession seems to have adopted the same practice that Crowley has of wearing sunglasses inside to look cool) and soon his coworkers are asking where he got them. And soon enough, an entire fleet of security guards is blanketing the entire mall, pacing in circles like water on a prayer wheel wearing Infernal Frames, and showing shoppers that they could look cool too, if they had glasses like that.

Crowley’s sales went through the roof once he made a habit of intercepting any uniformed guards before anyone else could get to them and make the sale.

Next, dear reader, you do something that shows a bit more initiative, despite utilizing nothing more than the power of suggestion. You suggest to your manager, why don’t we run a discount promotion for all mall employees?

Rinse and repeat the previous results, and shoppers in even the high-end designer stores are asking their sales reps where they got those sunglasses.

Crowley quickly became a star in the eyes of management. Customer foot traffic increased, sales went up, all because people see some rather nice looking sunglasses on that bloke over there and make the choice to seek out a nice looking pair for themselves.5

He’s good at his job, and he knows it. He could shine in any sales department, secure a job with glowing references he earned with barely any work. He could earn a lot more money, too. So why doesn’t he?

“This was lovely, my dear. Same time tomorrow?”

“ _Ngk_ , yeah, sure, ‘course, angel. Lunch tomorrow. Coffee ‘n tea on me.”

Aziraphale offers a wave and a smile before ambling into his bookshop, stationed in the storefront right across from the Infernal Frames kiosk, where he and Crowley each went to their respective jobs every day.

No salary in the world could make Crowley give that up.

* * *

Crossing the threshold from the bustling thoroughfare of the mall into the hushed comfort of the bookshop always makes Aziraphale let out a relaxed exhale, release tension he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding, and absorb the familiar smell of old paper on the next inhale. The shop is by no means a sanctuary, a haven of literary decadence, what with its selection of dime-a-dozen romance paperbacks and general light reading material lining the front of the store to draw patrons in. 

But luckily there’s never too much foot traffic, and the few customers they do get rarely tend to make their way back far enough to happen upon the more precious and compelling books. When Aziraphale began managing the shop, he noticed some genres were… lacking, and took it upon himself to better the store’s collection.6

He enjoys working at the bookshop, enjoys the quiet and the books and the camaraderie.

“Tracy, my dear, so sorry lunch went long, but do feel free to take your break now,” he calls as he weaves his way through the tables and stacks of books to get to the till.

“Oh, Az, welcome back love,” Tracy replies, and Aziraphale notices a strained tone to her voice. She must still be cross over that customer with the weeping iced coffee. “We have compan-”

“Aziraphale!” The booming voice greets him as he rounds the corner and the two figures come into view. Tracy, clearly at her wits’ end, and Gabriel, leaning against the counter with an air of manufactured charm. “Good to see you, buddy, been a while!” 

Aziraphale braces himself for the harsh pat on the shoulder just before it comes. “Ah, yes, Gabriel, hello. It has been quite a while since your last visit, we weren’t expecting you.” Aziraphale really has no idea what business a man like Gabriel has owning a small bookshop in the mall, but his surprise visits to ‘check on morale’ always leave him with a throbbing headache. He can already feel the beginnings of one at his temples, but he pastes on what’s surely a pathetic attempt at a smile. 

“Yeah, figured I’d drop by, see how things are going around here. You look good! What was for lunch today, hmm, I heard there’s a great salad place in the food court, I’ve been meaning to try it out,” Gabriel says in the tone of someone who would rather eat dirt than eat a meal from a shopping mall food court. Without waiting for an answer, he barrels on. “How are sales looking, huh? Our numbers were down last quarter, did you try putting those new erotic novels in the window like I suggested?”

“Yes, we did put those… _romance_ novels in the window, we’ve had a few buyers purchase them.”

“What’d I tell ya?” Gabriel raises his eyebrows and holds out his hands in a gesture clearly seeking approval, glancing between Aziraphale and Tracy. “I know we’re not _that kind_ of bookstore, but pornography sells, yeah?”

“I hardly think that counts as pornography,” Tracy mumbles with a sour look on her face. “Az, would you mind if I took my lunch now?” She’s already on her way out from behind the counter, offering Gabriel a nod goodbye.

“Yeah, good, I was actually hoping to speak with you in private, Aziraphale,” Gabriel says, turning to face Aziraphale directly with a look that makes the hairs on the back of Aziraphale’s neck stand up. “Can we go to the back room, or-”

“Oh, I’m afraid it’s just me and Tracy today, Newt has a family affair-”

“Ah, right, the new hire! How’s he doing?”

“Oh, quite well, actually,” Aziraphale says with a grin, happy to be the bearer of good news. “I will say he’s better suited for work with the customers, and stocking the shelves, as he can’t quite seem to get the hang of the till7, but overall he-”

“Great! Glad to hear he’s doing well.” Gabriel talks over him, the look on his face one of thinly veiled disinterest. “That’s fine, we can talk out here, keep an eye on the shop. Anyway, Aziraphale, I’ve been looking over the numbers, and our sales really are slipping here.” Aziraphale opens his mouth, some defense of the shop hoping to fumble past his lips, but Gabriel keeps talking. “I know you’ve been opposed to modernizing, but I really think people just… don’t want books anymore! The world’s changing, and you can’t expect customers to wanna carry around a brick of paper with them all day when they already have their phones right in their pockets. E-readers are the future and all that, right?”

“Yes, ah, quite right,” Aziraphale agrees softly, not really agreeing at all. The absurdity of the statement offended his very being, ‘people _don’t want books_ ’, ridiculous!

Gabriel seemed not to hear him. “So anyway, all this to say, if this quarter doesn’t show improvement from the last one, we have to consider some other options. I’ve been contacted by some… interested parties, let’s say, who have a vested interest in the transition between books and technology. If this store doesn’t start doing well, they’re very happy to take it off our hands and transition to something more modern.”

Aziraphale blinks and stammers for a moment as his brain catches up with what Gabriel is saying. “I- wait, excuse me one moment, you don’t… you don’t mean to say you’re considering _selling_ the shop, Gabriel?”

“Yes! Exactly. I knew you’d understand what I’m saying, buddy. Obviously I’d _hate_ for it to come to that, but if this business isn’t viable it’s worth considering other options, right?” The grin plastered on Gabriel’s face makes Aziraphale feel ill. The headache has yet to subside. “So I’m giving you guys this quarter to see if we can’t turn things around, and if not we’ll have to think about our next steps. Lots of companies in the e-reader space are dying to absorb stores like this and set up brick-and-mortar locations to sell their products. And really, this is prime real estate!” 

With that he looks around and swipes an arm across his body as if to indicate the vast potential of the space around them. His gaze catches at the entrance to the shop, beyond which he can see the sunglasses kiosk in the walkway. “Well, there’s some less than savory neighbors. Some of those guys that work there give me the creeps, they probably scare customers away from us!” 

(Surely that sweeping generalization couldn’t include Crowley. Aziraphale has heard plenty of complaints about the other employees from Crowley and Gabriel’s statement probably isn’t too off the mark regarding a few of them. But Aziraphale hates to see his friend spoken about with such disdain.) 

“Well, I’m sure everyone can learn to get along. Maybe they can be persuaded to move, wouldn’t that be great?” 

And no, no, this was spiralling out of Aziraphale’s control so fast. He leaves for one lunch and suddenly when he returns his shop is in danger of being sold, and the livelihood of people he cares about very deeply is threatened, and his head is _spinning_ , and-

“Ha, I doubt we have the authority to do that. Would be nice though, yeah?”

“Yes, quite, they’re very…. distracting.” He speaks as if from far away, thoughts running everywhere and nowhere. He’s brought back to focus by the sharp sound of Gabriel clapping his hands together.

“Well! This was a productive meeting, I think. So you’ve got the rest of the quarter to turn things around. So… two months or so? And if not then we’ll have to have some difficult conversations about what things will look like around here by the new year. Always good to see you, buddy!”

Aziraphale doesn’t brace himself for the shoulder slap this time around and it catches him off guard, reaching out to steady himself on the counter. Gabriel doesn’t seem to notice as he walks to the front of the store. “Keep up the good work. And thanks for following through with the pornography!” He points towards the window display and shouts far too loudly to be in good taste, and Aziraphale can’t bring himself to do much more than wave back before Gabriel is out of sight, tailored suit and all. 

He leans against the counter with a heavy sigh. This is not good, not good at all. Yes, patrons haven’t been frequent, but Aziraphale quite appreciates the peace and quiet, thank you very much. It’s far more difficult to enjoy a cuppa and a good book and some chats with Tracy when there are customers to be tending to. The thing is, Aziraphale has grown quite comfortable here over the years, has carved out a bit of a space for himself within the vibrant activity of the Tadfield Mall. His books are here. And his friends are here.

Yes, his friends.

“Oh, dear lord,” he says out loud, rubbing a hand over his face and walking to the back of the shop to brew some tea. How is he supposed to break this news to Tracy? And Newt, he was just hired, and he really is so sweet. A nightmare with the till, but he means well. 

And Crowley. Crowley has been such a dear friend for years, and Aziraphale loves seeing him at work outside the shop every day. 

(He sometimes finds himself looking out the shop window at the kiosk, admiring the impossibility that is Crowley’s arrangement of limbs accompanied by his ubiquitous sunglasses. And of course, his point of view through the window puts Crowley right next to the erotic- the _romance_ novels, which is really just inconvenient all around.)

He returns to the counter with his cup of tea, taking a seat on the stool and staring blankly out at the shop around him. A woman walks in, looking at the table display, and Aziraphale’s head is pounding. “I’m sorry, we’re quite closed,” he snaps, not even bothering to be offended at the woman’s harsh glare. She leaves, and Aziraphale is left alone with his shelves full of paper books, which, metaphorically, had just begun to tick.

### Footnotes

1\. _Adores_ not in the way that he’d actually ever be caught dead wearing something like that himself, but he adores how Aziraphale adores it.Back

2\. Even though he’s the one responsible for putting the kid’s name on the schedule, reading comprehension is far too much effort.Back

3\. In another reality, another universe, another existence, our Crowley would be very proud to claim them for his side as his own invention.Back

4\. Or to knowing that his name is Eric.Back

5\. And of course there was the one time he sabotaged the credit card system at the big fancy sunglasses storefront so any potential glasses buyers decided to come to the kiosk instead. It had been a slow day, he’d been bored.Back

6\. Which may or may not have entailed using the store’s budget to purchase some choice first editions, a passable selection of poetry, and the complete works of Georgette Heyer, among other things.Back

7\. Meaning he tried to ring a customer up once and somehow succeeded in crashing the whole system for the rest of the day. Aziraphale had hardly minded having to turn customers away, but it was still highly inconvenient when he tried to reboot the machine and all of the text was in Russian.Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi to me! I'm on tumblr [@darling-dear-dearest](https://darling-dear-dearest.tumblr.com/), and it's a new sideblog with not many followers so any way you guys can share this fic to spread it around would mean the world to me.  
> I'm still learning these wonderfully human celestial beings and their voices, so hopefully the more I write, the more my writing and their voices will grow.  
> I can almost guarantee you that if you're a writer in this fandom I've probably read something of yours and definitely think you're cooler than me and want to be your friend. Come chat with me here, on tumblr, anywhere! Any support from you guys really means everything, and I appreciate all of it.  
> This is a WIP but I do have a good chunk done and the whole thing generally outlined, so I'm committed! I can't guarantee a schedule for updates but let's say weekly...ish?  
> Really, come say hi to me, and I so so so appreciate you guys sharing this to help me get it around as I start to gain traction in this fandom as a creator. Thank you guys so much!


	2. i'm the weight, you're the kite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow!!! I'm so thrilled and touched and giddy at the response this fic has gotten so far. You are all so kind and have completely reassured me that putting myself and my writing out there is worth it. 
> 
> A quick note: In this chapter Crowley basically views landing in this retail job as a result of his fall from grace, so to speak. I am in no way implying that retail work is undesirable, less-than, or not real work. However, you’ll see that due to circumstances and events in Crowley’s life, he views being in this current job as a result of his past failures. And he’s also not a fan of the people he works with so he just doesn’t love the job. (But he stays because of a certain angel.) But this is solely Crowley’s feelings, I am not attempting to shame any type of work or job.
> 
> Also: my sincere apologies for not having the slightest idea how businessy things function. If this is your field of expertise, I ask of you a small suspension of disbelief. 
> 
> Read on and let me know what you think!
> 
> Title and chapter titles from Breathing Underwater by Metric.

_Four years ago_

“...so that’s pretty much the gist of it. All you gotta know. Just don’t blow the thing up and you’ll be fine.” Something about the way Beez spoke made the words sound a lot less encouraging than they should have been. “Questions?”

“Nah.” Crowley shakes his head, having a feeling that the prompt was purely performative, and actually having any questions would pose a great inconvenience for both of them. “Think I’ll get the hang of it.”

“Great. In that case, it’s time for my lunch break, so see if you can’t get a sale in before I’m back. Don’t fuck up.” And with that Beez is gone, leaving behind a 34 year old man who is far more nervous than he should be for his first day at a retail job. It’s not that he’s worried about doing the job, he’s a grown-ass man who can handle it. Definitely vastly overqualified for selling glasses. He just… has a lot riding on this. He hates having to prove himself, the feeling that those watching him are just waiting for him to fuck up so they can swoop down like vultures to scavenge the gorey remains of his self esteem. 

He settles on the stool by the till and takes in his surroundings. The Infernal Frames kiosk is in the middle of a wide walkway, tile floors gleaming in the sunlight from the large windows in the ceiling above, and there’s a few late morning shoppers making their way from store to store. A gaggle of kids walk by, barely teenagers, followed by a group of adults who are absolutely trying to chaperone without hovering. He hears a baby cry in the distance.

How the fuck did he get here?

He didn’t envision his adult life would be selling shitty glasses to tweens in the Tadfield Mall from a dinky kiosk. He thought he’d have a real job, a steady job, the kind with benefits. The kind he could wear a suit for1.

He didn’t mean to end up in Retail Hell. He just… hung around the wrong people.

He’d met Luke in uni, and he was brilliant. Fucking brilliant, really, too smart for his own good. He was engaging, and strategic, and when he pitched an idea, people listened. Crowley was drawn in instantly by his intellect. And the fact that he was objectively incredibly attractive didn’t hurt, either.

Nothing came of that, of course. But Crowley could enjoy the view, if nothing else.

They all went their separate ways after graduation, but a few years later Crowley woke up to a message from Luke about an idea. He had a pitch for a startup and wanted to get the old gang back together. Young, broke, and jobless, who was Crowley to say no to an opportunity landing in his lap?

In hindsight, there was really nothing special about it. It was a shitty tech startup, talking big talk but never actually doing anything innovative. Of course, at the time, it had seemed to be a stroke of genius. Crowley headed up marketing, and something like a company began to form around them. Why wouldn’t he invest in it? It was something that would take the world by storm, Luke had a grand vision of success and glory. 

And then it all fell.

Luke had been stealing money from the company, for _years_ , and finally got caught. The whole thing went under, and Crowley was left older, broke, and jobless again. 

So his options had been limited, to say the least.

London was expensive so he moved out to Tadfield, applied for jobs at the mall, and lo and behold, here we are.

Selling sunglasses to tweens.

He actually does manage to make a sale, a garish and painfully ugly pair of sunglasses with shitty quality gems embedded around the frames that one of the kids has apparently deemed to be the pinnacle of fashion. While Kid Number One is making her purchase, other Kids are behaving as kids do, which is to say, horribly. Some of the boys are roughhousing, acting like idiots, probably trying to impress the girls, and before he knows what’s happened, a shopping bag is swinging into the displays and knocking the sunglasses to the floor.

Fucking brilliant.

A parent offers a half-hearted apology as they all walk away but no one makes an effort to fix the debacle that Crowley now has in front of him. On his first day. With his manager coming back any minute.

He stares despondently at the glasses strewn across the floor. “Well, that went down like a lead balloon.”

“Sorry, what was that?”

“ _Bloody fucking-_ ” Crowley just about jumps out of his skin at the sudden appearance of a posh voice right behind him. “Who are- what…” The initial panic wears off, subsiding enough to allow the original panic about losing his job approximately three minutes after starting to rush back in, but through that he manages to register the sight of unnaturally fluffy white hair, a bloody waistcoat, and a tartan bow tie. 

“So sorry, dear boy,” the Charles Dickens novel says, taking a step back. “I didn’t mean to startle you, I just, I work just over there, see, the bookshop, and I couldn’t help but notice when your display got knocked over.” Crowley is still lost somewhere among the _I’m gonna get fired_ and the _wow blue eyes_ but has enough wherewithal to follow where the man’s impeccably manicured hand is pointing, and sure enough there’s a sign that reads _Eastgate Books_ above a shop that looks like something out of a cozy movie set. Inside, Crowley can see an intricate rug, some comfortable looking chairs, shelves and tables chock full of books all crammed together. “It was rather hard to miss, honestly. Quite a loud clattering sound upon impact. So I-I came over to see if I could help you set things to rights.”

“Bhhng,” Crowley responds intelligently. Brilliant.

The man with his fluffy halo of hair is already kneeling down, picking up the rickety shelves that had been displaying sunglasses before becoming the victim of assault and battery and setting it on the counter. “You’ll have to put this back where it’s supposed to go, I’m not sure myself,” he hums as he returns to the floor to gather the glasses.

Crowley blinks, shakes his head, blinks again, and reboots enough to remember basic bodily functions. “I- thank you. Yeah, thanks.” He sets the shelf back as best as he can remember (he really has no fucking idea but his best guess is better than nothing) and then joins his savior on the floor to pick up the other glasses that fell.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you before,” the man prompts, and wow, now that they’re both on the ground they’re really close and _hnng eyes_ but some part of Crowley manages to tug the rest of him along by the proverbial ear towards something resembling conversation.

“First day,” he mumbles, standing up to set the glasses down before circling the kiosk to gather any strays. “Clearly off to a great start.”

“Oh, really? Well, welcome to Tadfield Mall.” And as he stands up this guardian angel of his delivers an absolute sucker punch of a smile and Crowley is debating following the way of the glasses display and just toppling to the ground, because clearly it had the right idea. “Aziraphale Fell, it’s a pleasure.” 

There’s a hand extended, and enough of the system has come back online for Crowley to recognize the gesture and return it, and through a blur of _soft gentle soft soft_ he shakes the hand and responds, “Crowley. Er, Anthony,” he gives a half nod towards his shiny new name tag pinned to his chest, “but people really just call me Crowley.” 

He starts putting glasses back on the rack to the best of his memory, and is almost surprised when he sees those hands come up to help set other pairs back in their place as well. “It’s lovely to meet you. Sorry it’s under stressful circumstances, but I do hope the rest of your first day will be better.”

Crowley shakes his head. “No, I- thank you, this is an enormous help, my manager’ll be back any minute and I’d be mortified if I lost a job on day one.” He manages something of a shaky smile, glancing over at Aziraphale as they work together to put the display to rights. “‘S nice to meet you too.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble, I saw it happen, those children really just have the most dreadful behavior, and they’re always so messy.” Aziraphale is incredibly animated as he spoke, Crowley notices, even while his hands are occupied he manages to exude such dynamic energy and movement. _Eyes_ , his lizard brain helpfully supplies.

“Yeah, right little hellspawn, they are.”

Aziraphale huffs out a small chuckle. “Well, I don’t think I’d go that far, but… they’re quite difficult to manage.” He gives a diplomatic nod as he straightens back up, satisfied with his answer. “I think that just about does it.” Sure enough, all of the glasses have been returned to their rightful place on the old wooden shelves. _Could do with some revamping_ , Crowley notes. _Bit of an eyesore, really_.

“I really can’t thank you enough,” he says, proud of the coherent sentences he is now capable of. He really does feel like a weight has been lifted, he realizes. His job is no longer in jeopardy, he’s made a new… acquaintance, met a friendly face. A very attractive friendly face.

“No trouble at all,” Aziraphale assures with a soft smile. “I hope things only get better from here. Job-wise.”

“Let me buy you a coffee,” Crowley blurts out before he can stop himself. He can’t help it, it’d been bubbling up inside of him since he’d been greeted by angelic white hair and a glowing smile. “As a thank you,” he semi-smoothly recovers. “Or tea. Anything.” _Backtracking on the smoothness there, aren’t you?_

The smile that graces him in response to that is blinding, and makes him feel all squirmy inside. Some small, snake-like part of him wants to curl up in it, bask in that light. “Tea would be lovely.”

“Great. Right. Lovely. Perfect.” _Synonyms, fucking hell, stop it._

“You know where to find me,” Aziraphale says with a laugh and a nod towards the bookshop. Crowley nods dumbly in response, offering a wave as the other man starts to leave. “See you later, Crowley.”

And so it begins.

Four years later, Crowley’s still falling.

* * *

_Now_

“Bloody- fuckin’- oi, you, intern. For the love of all that is unholy, please stop doing whatever that is that you’re doing.”

Intern2 turns his head like a deer in headlights from where he’s incorrectly attempting to jam a new roll of receipt paper into the till. “Sorry, Anthony, it just ran out of paper and I figured I’d try to-”

“ _Crowley_ , for someone’s sake, it’s Crowley,” he says with a gesture to his much-despised nametag. Beez had steadfastly ignored his repeated requests to get a new one with his last name instead of his first, and he’d endured about six months of “Anthony” before he’d covered it with a strip of duct tape and scrawled _Crowley_ over it. 

“Right, Crowley, sorry,” Eric squeaks, still blabbering on as Crowley bodily shoves him out of the way and pulls the roll of paper from his hands to insert it correctly.

“You do this wrong ‘n the machine’ll jam up,” he grumbles, closing the lid and feeding the beginning of the new roll through the printer. _I am not getting paid nearly enough for this_ , he laments privately, tearing off the strip of paper with a decisive rip. “There. ‘M off for a coffee, back soon. Ring me if the world ends while I’m gone.”

With one last glance around the kiosk to make sure everything is in decent shape and that Eric has everything he needs, Crowley turns to head for the nearby coffee shop. As he turns, he sees an imposing man in a sharp suit walking out of the bookshop and a reflexive scowl passes over his face before he can stop it. Gabriel doesn’t come by often, but Crowley knows that whenever he does, he leaves Aziraphale stressed and in need of some comfort. Best get a drink for him too, then.

He approaches the counter of Jasmine Cottage with his usual swagger, cocking a hip against it and looking around for any sign of life. “Oi, coffee girl!”

He hears a muffled, “Shut up, Snakehead!3” before Anathema emerges from the back room, stacks of napkins tucked under her arms as she kicks the door shut behind her. “Some of us are busy having personalities that go beyond eyewear and can’t always be at your beck and call.” 

“Comes with the territory, can’t blame me.” Crowley tilts his sunglasses down on his nose enough to shoot her a cutting look from above the lenses. He’d always had a tendency to wear sunglasses out and about, especially in places where it was considered rude and unconventional to wear them. Once he’d started at Infernal Frames it became a means of supporting his Walking Billboard Marketing Scheme4 but now they’re just a fixture of his daily appearance. 

Anathema had aggressively inserted herself into Crowley’s life not long after he’d begun working at Tadfield Mall. He’d never say it out loud, but he came to adore her rather quickly. Her biting wit was a worthy adversary to his own, and it was nice having someone who communicated on the same level of sarcasm that he did. 

Anathema rounds the counter to restock the napkin dispensers around the shop, clearly trusting that Crowley wouldn’t care about her complete disregard for customer service. Crowley selects a comfy-looking armchair and collapses into it, kicking his legs over an armrest in something resembling a relaxed sprawl that had decided to take some artistic liberties. “Slow day?”

“Yeah, always slows down a bit after the lunch rush,” she calls from somewhere behind him. “I’m not complaining, it’s nice to get a second to actually breathe.” 

Crowley gazes around the shop as she speaks, settling into the comfortable atmosphere Anathema has cultivated. He has yet to be able to get a straight answer out of her regarding how old she actually is, but despite the fact that Crowley knows for certain that Jasmine Cottage has been at the mall and under her ownership for much longer than he’s been there, he still refuses to entertain the possibility that she’s any older than her mid-twenties. All he’s managed to glean from her is something about a great-aunt who started the shop (or rather, as Anathema always phrased it, _put the shop here_ ) years ago back when the mall was first built, who _prophesied_ that Anathema would come to own it.5

She runs the coffee shop like a well-oiled machine, and he has nothing but the utmost respect for her and her work ethic. He loves her dry, unconventional sense of humor and the way she unashamedly leans into her weirdness. 

The shop has crystals positioned in “auspicious” locations, a horseshoe over the entrance, and magazines positioned by tables for customers who would like to pair their coffee with some light reading about the evils of nuclear power or government conspiracies to cover up UFO sightings. He’s not so sure he completely understands when she goes on about auras, but he learned long ago to never question whether or not she can actually see them.

“What’ll it be?” He’s jolted out of his thoughts by a stack of napkins making contact with the back of his head as Anathema sweeps her way back around the counter. 

“My usual6 and a cocoa.” 

“Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise?”

“Shut it,” he grumbles with a wave of his hand. “Saw that wanker Gabriel leaving the shop, figure he might want his comfort drink, is all.”

He can almost feel the way Anathema’s mood darkens at the mention of Gabriel. “Shit. He’s never good news. Misogynistic prick.” Crowley got the distinct feeling that Gabriel regarded him and his coworkers with the same amount of joy one gets from finding something sticky on the underside of one’s shoe. “Hence the cocoa.”

“Hence the cocoa,” Crowley echoes. 

“Y’know, one could say that it’s pretty domestic of you to get him his favorite drink-”

“ _Shut it-_ ”

“-without prompting, and the fact that you can judge what his mood will be-”

“-so help me someone, I _will_ dump coffee on your fuckin’ quartz iceberg-”

“-without even _seeing_ him, and from there know exactly what he’ll want to drink-”

“-I’m not kidding, good luck getting rid of the smell-”

“-and it seems to me like that’s something that someone would do for the person they-”

“- _Anathema_.” At the sharp tone of Crowley’s voice, she thankfully stops her very pointed ranting. 

Crowley doesn’t need to hear it from her, he knows damn well how horribly, painfully, humiliatingly gone he is over Aziraphale. He’s terrible at hiding it, despite how he tries to keep himself in check, to not be _too much_ or _not enough_ or _thank you, my dear, but not quite_ , to not let slip just how little of an exaggeration it is to say that he’d do anything to see that angelic smile. That’s another perk of the sunglasses, Aziraphale can’t see the disgustingly longing looks Crowley is broadcasting like a fucking satellite virtually every time they’re together. Anathema can see right through him, tinted lenses be damned, and she’s lent an ear on more than one occasion to Crowley’s lovesick ranting. 

“Sorry,” she mumbles, suitably chastised as she snaps the lid on Crowley’s drink and starts on the cocoa. “You know I’m not gonna-”

“Yes, I _know_.” He rolls up from the armchair in a move seemingly contradictory to what his joints should be capable of and walks to the counter. “I’m just… I don’t need a reminder of what I don’t even have. He’s happy, I’m happy. ‘S good enough.”

He can tell she’s not convinced, but she keeps her mouth shut as she adds marshmallows to the drink and closes the lid. He pulls out a five pound note and leaves it on the counter as she hands over the cups, knowing full well they’d be on the house if he let Anathema get away with that. He’d succumbed years ago to her repeated insistence on a discount, but never took back any change. He’d never admit to being proud of her, but she ran this whole shop herself, it was damn impressive.

“I’ll fill you in on whatever bullshit Gabriel put him through next time I see you,” he said, raising the cups in thanks and turning to go. 

“You better!” Her call follows him out the door as he re-enters the mall proper. A glance at the kiosk assures him that Eric has things relatively under control, so he veers left and strolls into the bookshop, a smile gracing his face without his permission at the almost calming sensation simply crossing the invisible line from the mall to the bookshop gives him.

“Angel!” He weaves his way through the stacks of books back towards the till, which he knew Aziraphale had arranged strategically to ensure it was difficult to navigate to from the entrance. 

He rounds the corner past the last shelf, and while he had expected to find an Aziraphale who was annoyed, or stressed, or a bit tetchy, he was in no way prepared for the despondent angel he saw seated behind the counter. “Shit, what’s wrong?” He rushes forward, setting down the two cups and resting his elbows beside them to lean close. “What happened, what’d he say to you?”

Aziraphale, to his credit, still manages to light up the world around him at least a little with the smile he gives once he sees Crowley. However, his heart clearly isn’t in it, no matter how vehemently Crowley knew he’d try to convince him otherwise. 

“Nothing, my dear, really, I don’t know what on earth you mean.” He has a cup of tea before him, Crowley notes, no longer warm enough to be steaming, and his hands shake slightly.

“Stuff it, I saw Gabriel leaving here a few minutes ago.” Ever the absolute worst at human interactions, Crowley ill-advisedly makes a poor attempt at levity. “What, did he make some rude comments about Emily Dickinson’r somethin’?”

“Oh, no, I…” Crowley can see Aziraphale fighting an internal battle, and he wants, he fucking _aches_ to reach forward, to take his hands, to make it better, to say _what can I do, who can I fight, how can I fix this for you?_ “Oh, Crowley, I really didn’t want to worry you with this.”

“Worry me, angel, worry away.” He shakes his head, expression open as he leans forward over the well-worn wooden countertop.

“I- Gabriel, he- that is to say-” He takes a grounding breath before releasing it in a loud groan, jumping up from his seat and beginning to pace. Crowley turns and leans back against the counter, watching him. 

“Crowley, if the bookshop doesn’t start showing unattainably stellar sales in the next two months, Gabriel is going to sell it and put us out of business.”

A beat. Silence. Crowley’s jaw is slack. Aziraphale is motionless, standing ramrod straight with his hands clasped before him, the agitated movement of his fingers worrying with his nail beds the only sign of life in the shop. Then,

“...I brought cocoa?”

### Footnotes

1\. Or, more accurately, the kind he would be told to wear a suit for but would refuse to wear a suit for out of principle. Back

2\. Eric, Part-Time Sales Associate. Back

3\. The tattoo on his temple had been a spur of the moment decision in uni, and he still loved it. Back

4\. He’d trademark that someday. Back

5\. Anathema, of course, followed her great-aunt’s instructions to the letter, but also took some liberties regarding flavor offerings once she took over. Really, even though pumpkin spice and matcha weren’t in Agnes’s book, Anathema knew what people nowadays wanted and hoped that wherever Agnes now was, she understood. Back

6\. It’s nice having reached a level of familiarity where Anathema knows his order by heart, but mostly because this means he doesn’t need to say his overly sugary preference out loud. He exudes Black Coffee Energy and has a reputation to maintain, no matter how much he might sometimes like to indulge in something sweet and hazelnutty. Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi to me!!! I'm on tumblr at [@darling-dear-dearest](https://darling-dear-dearest.tumblr.com/), and it's a new sideblog so I really need all the help I can get in gaining traction and promoting this fic. So please, if you have a moment, reblog it or post about it there and help spread it around, because as a sideblog I can't follow and like so I'm relying solely on people stumbling across this fic to find it! 
> 
> I don't think I can do an adequate enough job describing how happy you guys made me with your response to chapter 1. I love seeing your comments and the lovely things you've had to say so far. Really, the feeling is unparalleled. I'm still getting into the groove of writing and being a writer and publishing my writing, and my execution doesn't always live up to my personal expectations for myself. But I'm already seeing some growth, and you guys are helping motivate me to keep working and learning and growing. Thank you so much!
> 
> As I've said before, odds are if you're a writer in this fandom I definitely think you're infinitely cooler than me and definitely want to be your friend. Feel free to say hi!
> 
> Updates are weekly-ish, but I do have a crazy week ahead of me so can't promise an update next weekend. But I'll do my best!

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi to me! I'm on tumblr [@darling-dear-dearest](https://darling-dear-dearest.tumblr.com/), and it's a new sideblog with not many followers so any way you guys can share this fic to spread it around would mean the world to me.  
> I'm still learning these wonderfully human celestial beings and their voices, so hopefully the more I write, the more my writing and their voices will grow.  
> I can almost guarantee you that if you're a writer in this fandom I've probably read something of yours and definitely think you're cooler than me and want to be your friend. Come chat with me here, on tumblr, anywhere! Any support from you guys really means everything, and I appreciate all of it.  
> This is a WIP but I do have a good chunk done and the whole thing generally outlined, so I'm committed! I can't guarantee a schedule for updates but let's say weekly...ish?  
> Really, come say hi to me, and I so so so appreciate you guys sharing this to help me get it around as I start to gain traction in this fandom as a creator. Thank you guys so much!


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